


Christmas for Cowboys

by ladymelodrama, salzrand



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Brienne isn't one for fool's gold, But Jaime wants her to know he's the real thing, Daenerys is at home, F/M, Jorah's brooding and pining away, Old West Westeros, Winter Jorleesi, and hoping the cold air knocks some sense into her fave cowboy, cowboy!Jaime & cowboy!Jorah, it's like it's meant to be, ranchowner!Daenerys, staring out a frost-covered window, with some Braime thrown in because I heart them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28362114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/pseuds/ladymelodrama, https://archiveofourown.org/users/salzrand/pseuds/salzrand
Summary: A story about Jaime Lannister and Jorah Mormont, two lovesick cowboys out on the cold prairie on Christmas Eve.Set circa late 1800s/early 1900s, somewhere in Montana Territory. With illustrations by salzrand <3
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Jorah Mormont, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 65
Kudos: 82
Collections: Winter Jorleesi 2020





	1. The Snow-Covered Plains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rileypotter17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rileypotter17/gifts).



> Ah! December's almost over? Wait. How did that happen? Time flies when you're having fun, I suppose :)
> 
> So anyway...this fic. Well, there's a list of inspiration-blame to go around: 1) the _Black Beauty_ gifs that were floating around Tumblr a few weeks ago with cowboy!Iain in his full glory (#BeStillOurHearts); 2) the subsequent and inevitable fangirl spirals with salzrand that obviously followed (because of course they did lol) <3; 3) John Denver's "Christmas for Cowboys" which I was reminded of during said spirals (and then listened to on repeat until this first chapter suddenly appeared on the page like magic) - and p.s. if you've never listened to that song before, you really should; and 4) rileypotter17 for being the first person to make me aware of the epic possibilities of the Jaime/Jorah broship. When I decided to write this, I couldn't imagine any other characters/actors fitting into these roles so well (and now I'm just super disappointed that Nikolaj and Iain never starred in a Western together) - so this one's dedicated to you, darling <3
> 
> Also I took the opportunity to slip some good old-fashioned Braime into our Jorleesi party. Hope no one minds <3
> 
> This was originally written as a one-shot. But, oh, I think you all know us better than that by now ;) Expect a second chapter to follow a little later this week <3 <3 <3

Jaime throws another scrap of kindling on the campfire, sending up an orange spray of cinders and sparks into the clear, crisp, prairie night. 

Those flickering embers drift up into vast nothingness, soon becoming indistinguishable with all the blinking stars above. The universe is a sparkling geode tonight, cold and sharp, all twinkling lights and silver dust cast out into black waters.

The prairie is tinted blue and white, with starlight reflected off crusty snow. Even at night, the wide Montana horizons are visible, curving with distant hills, land meeting sky in a way that seems to go on forever. 

And on a cold winter’s night, forever feels twice as long. So long that a man could get lost in those stars and those snowy fields and forget to find his way home again.

It’s a lonely thought, for a lonely night. But the two men around that campfire are accustomed to nights like this.

Jaime Lannister and Jorah Mormont are out on the range on Christmas Eve, two men driving two hundred head of cattle down from the snowier hills to find some open grass down in the sloping meadowlands. The cattle are mostly bedded down now in the valley. Their horses are tied up in a nearby grove of birch trees, puffing out frosty breath, velvet noses grazing through snow dust for the sparse grass beneath. 

This part of the country is still too wild, even for rustlers, and they’ll have no worries about wolves or other wild beasts, as it’s a frigid night and anything with a heartbeat is hunkered down and curled up in a cozy nest or warm burrow somewhere. 

Jaime pulls his jacket closer around his shoulders, before rubbing his hands briskly towards the open flames, currently wishing he had a cup of hot coffee and a nice, warm burrow to curl up in himself. The campfire will keep them from freezing but it’s more than a little nippy out tonight.

“Mormont? Play somethin’, would ya?” Jaime asks his companion, as he finally sits down again on his bedroll. Jorah’s sitting on the other side of the fire, in plaid, denim and corduroy, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out, his eyes on the dancing flames, deep in thought. 

Jaime doubts the other man will sleep tonight. He’s got too much on his mind, that’s obvious. Jaime’s noticed that his friend has been distracted and sullen most of this drive. This isn’t starkly unusual, as Mormont isn’t much of a conversationalist, even when he’s in a good mood.

But honestly, neither one of them are in the best of spirits. How could they be? They’re out in the middle of nowhere, sleeping under the stars on the cold prairie on Christmas Eve, miles and miles from home.

Miles and miles from a warm bed and the sweet sound of a woman’s voice.

Jaime suspects Jorah’s missing _one_ woman’s voice, in particular. Jaime also knows that his voice is a poor substitute for Daenerys Targaryen and maybe he should just keep his mouth shut and let Jorah brood. But that’s just not his way. 

His question is met with silence and the snap of that campfire. He wonders if the other man heard him at all, as he’s still staring at flames…until the words finally sink in, minutes later, and Jorah rouses, belatedly seeming to remember that he isn’t alone out here, after all.

“What’s that?” He replies, having heard Jaime’s voice, but not the request.

“Play us a song,” Jaime repeats himself, in a smooth, drawling accent that the ladies back home in West Creek find diverting, to say the least. 

All except Brienne, that old miner’s daughter, who’s had enough of empty dreams and false promises, smooth-talking men and silver-tongued cowboys, much to Jaime’s eternal chagrin.

Maybe if Selwyn Tarth had raised that girl in silks and satins, instead of coal dust and hard work, she’d be a little less suspicious of all things that glitter. Last time he was at her place, she’d told Jaime that his smile sparkled like fool’s gold.

It wasn’t a compliment, but her cheeks turned rosy as she said it, so…

Jaime suppresses a combination of sigh and knowing grin at the memory. Well, she wasn’t wrong. But he’s not put off. He knows he’ll have to keep working on that woman—damn her stubbornness—to wear her down. And he plans to wear her down, if it’s the last thing he does. 

It was a challenge at the beginning, trying to win over the only girl alive who refused to give him a second look. But it’s become more than that. Much more.

That’s one of the main reasons he decided to volunteer for this trip, begging Daenerys to let him tag along with Jorah, knowing that the fact that he’s sacrificing his own Christmas cheer for the sake of someone else might somehow get back to Brienne.

Maybe she’ll finally start giving him the time of day, instead of that familiar and wholly grim frown that says she knows his kind too well, and has no time for it.

_And don’t let the door hit you on the way out._

But the shade of blushes on her pretty cheeks don’t lie. And Jaime’s naturally optimistic. He’d been raised as his father’s favorite son. He has a reputation for having a golden hand, as every scheme he touches seems to work out just fine. Eventually.

Jorah doesn’t have the same talent or knack for recognizing good fortune. His outlook on life has always been a little more…somber. And he’s a gruff bear most of the time anyway. But Jaime knows he’ll not deny the request, as he’s an affable man. He watches Jorah slip his harmonica out from his coat’s inside pocket, licking his weather-chapped lips before running his mouth up and down the scales once.

“What are you in the mood for?” Jorah wonders, willing to go with whatever the other man wants.

“Something sweet, something Christmassy,” Jaime suggests. His mischievous streak dares him to poke the bear, just a little and all in good fun. He lifts one eyebrow up just a hair, “A love song maybe?”

Jorah’s eyes darken a shade on that simple turn of phrase, or maybe it’s just the shifting firelight. But it’s a rueful look that Jaime sees pass his craggy features, regretful and likely mulling over something left unfinished back at the ranch.

Jaime thinks the look’s misplaced, as he’s well-acquainted with the games of men and women and he’s fairly certain that Jorah is being his own worst enemy. Again. As always. 

He’d caught the look that passed between Jorah and Miss Targaryen, just before they left the ranch. They’d been on the porch steps, talking quietly—she was fiddling with the end of her long, silver-blonde braid and he was looking at his boots. But Jaime saw the way they parted, and how her hand lingered against his forearm for a long minute, before she finally pulled away. 

As she walked into the cabin, Jaime watched her turn back, to cast at least one wistful glance towards Jorah’s retreating form before the men rode off. For a minute, he wondered if she might call him back...

Whatever was simmering between their employer and her favorite cowboy, Jaime knew it had been simmering for some time. Years, even. He guessed one of the reasons Jorah had been in such a mood this trip was because it was about to boil over, one way or another. And, in Jaime’s experience, these sorts of things feel a lot like misery right before they transform into joy.

_And I intend to show you this firsthand, my dear, stubborn, sweet Brienne…_

But with Brienne miles away, Jaime’s thoughts turn to Jorah’s love life, instead of his own. At least for the present.

Jaime considers his friend critically. Jorah could use a few lessons in overcoming his own silence, that’s for damn sure. Jaime’s been trying to get that through his thick skull since they were kids. But life was hard out here and they grew up fast, already branding cattle and roaming the meadowlands for wild horses when they were knee high to a grasshopper.

“Fine,” Jorah mutters, not particularly thrilled to be brought out of his moody funk. But he takes a long breath, almost like a sigh, before bringing that harmonica back to his mouth to play some pretty music, nonetheless. 

The sound is lonesome but lovely, and in the crisp air, the song travels far and away, filling up the great prairie lands from horizon to horizon, whispering across crusty snow and frosted grasses. 

_Hush my love, lie still and slumber, pale the light that crowns your bed..._

Jaime closes his eyes on the familiar melody and the way it echoes across the wide, open plains, soothing and melodious, like a winter lullaby. 

When Jorah finishes, he brings that mouth harp down to rest in his lap, staring at it. 

Jaime lets the silence settle back over them for a beat but then mentions, in an off-hand manner, “You know, if you can’t tell her how you feel, maybe you should play her a song?”

Jorah’s gaze has returned to the flames, and he’s brooding again. If anything, the song made it worse. But at Jaime’s words, his head snaps back up and, dark as it was and bundled up as they were, Jaime swears he sees some color start to creep up his friend’s neck.

This satisfies Jaime immensely. He doesn’t want to be the only one miserably, _hopelessly_ in love.

He knows that he’s already said too much and Jorah’s likely going to growl at him if he says anymore, so he raises his gloved hands defensively before Jorah can start. He tells him, “Look, I’m gonna give you your Christmas present early this year…”

Jorah snorts on this, reminding him, “I’ve known you for over forty years, Jaime, and you’ve never bought me a single gift in all that time.”

“Well, you’re not usually worth it,” Jaime answers, with a smirk. “But here it is, and I want you to realize that this is the best gift anyone’s ever gonna give you.”

“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“You’d be too. If you’d seen what I’d seen.”

“And what have you seen?”

“A lovestruck cowboy who can’t take his eyes off the pretty young woman he works for. And a pretty young woman who can’t stop seeking out the company of a miserable old cowboy who, for whatever reason, seems to have endeared himself to her heart.”

“That’s not...,” Jorah swallows hard and his expression has gone stern, warning Jaime off continuing. But Jaime knows what he’s doing.

“Play the girl a _song_ , Jorah. Just one,” he’s dead serious, no teasing now. And he adds, shrugging, “Or better yet, sing to her. As soon as we get back. Do it. And I promise you this, boy, you’ll be married to her before New Year’s. So…Merry Christmas.”

Jaime doesn’t wait for whatever foolhardy reply Jorah might try, flipping onto his side, deciding it’s high time to squeak out what sleep he might. His saddle bag is a poor excuse for a pillow but they have a long ride ahead of them at daybreak, so he’ll try it anyway. 

Besides, he’s heard all of Jorah’s arguments a thousand times before. The man is far too fond of regrets and hesitation and second-guessing for his own good. 

_Lucky for him, Daenerys isn’t fond of any of them_ , Jaime thinks smartly, knowing that his friend’s future is all sunshine and daisies, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. 

Either he’ll make his move and win her over, or she’ll just kiss him in the stables one of these nights and get it over with herself.

Either way, Jaime enjoys a love story with a happy ending, so he smirks against that terrible pillow, soaking in the warmth of the fire at his back.

The melody of Jorah’s song keeps humming through his head, together with the mere name of _Brienne the Feisty Beauty_ , all playing sweet music together, until he finally falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyric used for Jorah's song is a reworking of a Doc Watson song called "Christmas Lullaby" (pretty, pretty) <3


	2. The Bells at Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I believe it's now officially New Year's all around this fine and crazy ol' world, I wish you all a safe, happy, healthy and wonderful 2021! Much love to all. Mwah! <3

Jorah and Daenerys aren’t quite married by New Year’s—more’s the pity. 

But it’s not to be helped, as a late December squall delayed their ride home by a few more days than expected, so they only arrive back at Dragonstone Ranch near midnight on New Year’s Eve.

The ranch is snow-covered and quiet, its gently sloping hills lit up by silver moonlight, all white and blustery, its stock fences and tumbleweed locked in latticed ice. Pale smoke is puffing out of the tall bunkhouse and cabin chimneys, promising little pockets of warmth in the snows—like those nests and burrows that Jaime was dreaming of on Christmas Eve. They’ll tumble into their beds soon enough, and their weary bones will bless them for a night spent somewhere other than cold, hard ground. 

The windows in the buildings are all dark. Everyone else has been asleep for hours. 

The two men ride in like snow-blown ghosts off the endless prairie, with ice in their beards, snow-dust on their Stetsons, and hoary frost clinging to their coats. They head straight to the barn and stables, where they find some relief, a refuge out of the elements for the first time in many days. 

The livestock inside seem nearly cozy, bedded down for the night on fresh straw, their bodies giving off natural heat in snug stalls. A gold-striped barn cat is hunting mice, tail twitching and green eyes alert. She runs into the shadows as the men open the sliding door, disturbed by the sudden sound.

Jaime lights a couple lanterns with matches, trimming the wick before passing one to Jorah, who hangs the lamp on a hook hanging from a crossbeam between the horses’ stalls. The horses plod into the barn without argument, as happy as the men to be home and free of those chaffing saddles and frosty bits.

Jorah slips the bridle and bit from his mare, stroking her long face from forehead down to velvet nose a few times with a wrangler’s calm touch. He peels off one of his gloves with his teeth, and then the other, shoving them both in his right coat pocket. He cups his hands and blows on his fingers before reaching up, using that warmth to carefully melt the accumulated ice off the horse’s long, brown eyelashes.

The men are both dead tired and unsaddle the horses in weary silence, working side by side, as they have since they were boys. There’s a natural rhythm to their movements that requires no words. Jorah hands Jaime his set of bridle and reins, so the other man can hang them up on wooden pegs lining the stable walls. The saddles are piled on a wooden bench, free-standing on the barn floor. 

As Jaime lays the second saddle on that bench with a worn-out grunt, the cat reappears at his feet, twisting her lanky body around the cowboy’s boots. Even exhausted, he manages a grin at the little creature and reaches down to scratch her between the ears. She purrs in response, liking the attention. Meanwhile, Jorah has reached for a grooming brush perched on a nearby barrel.

Giving the barn cat one last itch under her furry chin, Jaime mutters a fond, “All hail Cersei the Cat, Queen of the Mouse-Catchers,” before straightening up. He wanders back over to the stalls and clamps his hand down on Jorah’s shoulder in farewell. He knows that Jorah will take a little longer with the horses. He always does. But Jaime’s too tired to keep his eyes open any longer. 

“I’m gonna go sleep until spring,” Jaime mentions, only half-joking. He briefly considers whether it’s worth it to cross the yard to the bunkhouse? It’s still snowing outside but at least the blizzard conditions have lifted, leaving behind only tinseled flurries. 

Still, all those heavy drifts to trudge through…

Jaime eyes the rickety old ladder leading up to the haymow, thinking those dry stacks above look mighty inviting. But he decides he can manage another thirty steps through the snow, if only for the sake of a pillow made of down instead of straw. 

He says his goodnight as he leaves the barn, raising his hand behind him and muttering, “Happy New Year, Mormont.”

“You too, Jaime.”

After Jaime’s gone, Jorah takes his time brushing down the horses. He finds it settles them, and _him_ , after a long ride. And his spirit could use some settling, there’s no question about it. 

As soon as they came into sight of the ranch, his head started spinning again, on those cryptic words Daenerys said to him on the porch steps, just before they left last week.

_I want things to change around here…_

He runs his hand down the mare’s flank, pulling a couple sticky burrs from her tail and a few more from her mane, combing out the snarls, before coming back to stroke her long face a few times more. When he’s done, he pulls a sugar cube from his coat pocket, the one not housing his gloves, and offers the mare a little treat. She deserves one, after this week. 

It was all long rides, frosty winter and lonesome prairies. And moody cowboys, besides. Jorah knows well enough that he wasn’t good company this time around. He’ll have to make it up to Jaime somehow.

Maybe he can put in a good word for him with Brienne? Not that it will do much good. That woman has a strong constitution and she knows her own mind. Much like another woman he knows…

Jaime’s horse soon nudges him from the neighboring stall, velvet muzzle pushing and nuzzling against his back with insistence. A little smile teases Jorah’s lips. He reaches into his pocket to retrieve another cube, turning and offering it to the paint mustang, who takes it from his outstretched palm immediately. 

“Do I get one too?” comes a soft voice from near the barn entrance. 

A woman’s voice. 

Jorah doesn’t have to look up to know who it is—Daenerys Targaryen’s voice is more familiar to him than his own at this point. Her lusty voice haunts his dreams and lives in his head most hours of the day. But it’s near midnight and they thought everyone was asleep, so he looks up anyway, his blue eyes betraying more than a little surprise to find her there, standing on the loose straw and blown snow that litters the hard-packed ground and swept stone. 

Her voice is a little huskier than usual in the nighttime hours, and the sound of it makes his heart ache. Her silver-blonde hair is braided to one side loosely and she has a fringed, Apache blanket thrown around her shoulders, covering her nightdress. She’s pulled on her boots to make the trudge across the yard but the skirt on that nightdress is made of a thin, sheer fabric and only goes to her knees, leaving her legs bare down to the tops of those fur-lined boots. 

She must be freezing, underdressed for the frigid night. And what would bring her out here at this hour?

She speaks her greeting as a little tease, cocking her eyebrow up at him and letting her mouth hint at a little smirk. He’s taken aback by her manner, if only because he didn’t expect to see her here, and certainly not until the next morning, when he’d give her news of the cattle and the condition of the lower pastures, sticking to business and _only_ business.

He's too afraid to talk of anything else. He’s too afraid to ask her what she meant.

_I want things to change…_

Oh, it’s good to see her though. Jorah can’t deny that. He’s a lost cause on that score. Five years of working for this woman, and the magic of seeing her, of just _being_ in the same room with her, has yet to wear off. 

It wasn’t love at first sight. But it was close. And he knows it’s hopeless for him. 

He’s known it was hopeless since the beginning, despite the fact that Daenerys has made no secret that she prefers him to any of her other ranch hands. Jaime’s not the only one who’s noticed. Christ, even Davos Seaworth, that resilient crop farmer down by Storm’s End mentioned something last time he was up at the ranch, peddling his sacks of prize-winning onions, turnips and potatoes. 

And Jorah got into a fight at the saloon a few weeks ago when a roguish pirate-cowboy-for-hire, just passing through and likely peeved that he’d been turned away from Dragonstone, made a wisecrack to one of the other boys about what it must be like working for “Mrs. Mormont.” 

She didn’t deserve to have anyone say anything so shameful behind her back. 

Daenerys was a rare and beautiful woman. Strong and clever, with more accomplishments achieved in her young life than most folks collect in a whole lifetime. She’d built her father’s ranch back from ruins, from _nothing_ , after that old man burned down his own barn and the cabin in a manic rage, angry at the weather or God or something just as immoveable, recklessly setting off a spring grass fire (oh, it was a false spring that year—dry and tense) that spread to the nearby Stark ranch and then nearly took the rest of West Creek with it. 

Daenerys had to contend with jealousy at her success and scorn because of her father’s past sins. She didn’t need lesser men and women gossiping about her private life too. Or pairing her off with an old cowboy who had a speckled past and not much more than two silver dollars to rub together.

Even if there’s a grain of truth in what they say…

 _Is there?_ Jorah can’t be sure, and that’s what’s been eating him up lately. The unknowing. The second-guessing. 

It was easier before, when he knew there was no hope. When he was happy enough to work for Daenerys for as long as she’d have him, putting everything he had into making sure this endeavor succeeded and her ranch would forever be known as the crown jewel of the territory. 

But lately, she’s said some things and done some things that have rekindled a ridiculous hope that he thought he’d doused a few years back. Reckless, impulsive things. Like showing up in the barn in the middle of the night, half-dressed and looking at him like _that_. 

Jorah hates himself for hoping, even still, knowing that it’s likely all in his head. 

“Did we wake you?” he asks, his voice hoarse from days out in miserable weather. His tone is regretful too, as he’d not disturb her sleep for the world.

“No, I was up,” she shakes her head, bringing that woven blanket closer around her shoulders. She’s looking him up and down, as if drinking in the sight of him, quenching a thirst—and is that a sigh of relief that falls off her sweet lips?

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Jorah…,” she murmurs, as she meets his gaze again. There’s nothing sore about those violet-colored irises though, softening under the flicker of lantern-light, as she wanders closer.

Soon she’s standing next to the horse. Standing next to _him_. Jorah doesn’t move away. He never does with her, too used to her presence beside him. They work in close proximity most days, as she’s not one to let her ranch hands do all the work around here. And she loves her horses—that wild, black stallion especially—he suspects she’ll be out jumping fences in breathless abandon as soon as the weather turns again.

Her scent, the sound of her footsteps, the melody in her voice, the touch of her hands. It’s all so achingly familiar to him.

Her hand now emerges from that blanket to gently run down the mare’s crest and withers, even though she has to stand on the toes of her boots to reach. She speaks to the horse in hushed tones as she smooths out her mane, making sure not to spook the animal, as she knows her presence here is unexpected. 

By the horse _and_ the tall cowboy who stands just beside her.

When she settles back on her heels, Daenerys meets his gaze once more, speaking frankly, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Aye, the weather’s been howling for days,” Jorah nods grimly, thinking it’s the winter winds that keeps her up at night.

“No, Jorah,” she insists, sighing once before she makes herself very clear. Her eyes are nearly rolling with something like frustration and she’s looking at him in that cheeky way that implores him to understand, “I couldn’t sleep because I was worried about you. You were supposed to be back two days ago and we received no word. Not one.”

“I’m sorry, I—,” he stumbles over the apology, misreading her endlessly. 

This is a recent development, as he’s usually so in tune with her that the others often catch them walking in step around the ranch. He thinks she’s scolding him for the delay in getting back. He explains, “We got caught in a storm up in the hills. Jaime wanted to push through it but I thought it best to wait it out instead of—”

“Don’t be sorry,” Daenerys interrupts him, hand absently falling to his forearm. “You know this countryside better than any of them. And what would I have done if you’d got lost in a blizzard?”

Oh, she’s teasing him, is she? Well, he can recognize that at least. This isn’t unusual either. Their manner with each other has been too familiar since the beginning. He’s not sure why, honestly, but it’s just the way it is—as if they knew each other in a prior life. That’s one of the reasons the rumors persist. 

There’s an ease of speech and touch he has with her that he doesn’t have with another living soul. A natural magnetism that seems to draw them together and has done now, for years. He’s powerless against the force of it, he’ll admit it freely.

Even now, when he’s all mixed up about…practically everything. He still finds himself reaching out, to hike the corners of that fringed blanket up higher on her nearly bare shoulders, as the fabric is slipping and he doesn’t want her to catch a chill.

“You’d manage, I’m sure,” he replies, with a tender smile. He appreciates the intimation that she can’t live without him, even if he knows it’s not true. He’s confident in her abilities and knows that she would always triumph in her aims, with or without him. He reminds her, “And you might find that younger cowboys can do twice as much work around here.”

“Lazy boys, all of them,” she argues. 

“You might not say that if you saw some of them in action.”

“I’ve seen enough,” she stresses, tipping her head at him. She’d certainly sent that vainglorious pirate-cowboy on his way fast enough when he came poking around the ranch, looking for shiftless work and easy money.

Her hand comes away from his forearm to brush some lingering ice shards off the front of his coat. But soon, she catches sight of the frost in his beard. She bites at her bottom lip just a little, reaching up to cup his face, warming his cheek with her wandering fingers just as he’d done with the horse’s eyelashes. 

Her look has turned affectionate and even a little—his heart starts pounding on the truths written in her pretty eyes…

“I meant what I said before you left,” she says suddenly, without segue, her tone terribly serious now. She doesn’t want him to read any tease into these words, and times them with a soft, lingering caress against his cheek that he can’t misread.

_When you get back, I want things to change around here…_

That’s what she said. That’s what he’s afraid to hear. Because as much as her eyes might go soft when he’s around, and the fingers on her hand curl over his skin in a way that can’t be mistaken for anything other than true affection, he still doubts.

What if the change she wants is for him to pack up and leave? What if this is goodbye and she’s just softening the blow before it comes?

Could he leave her? Could he forget her? He thinks he’d rather die.

“I want things to change,” she repeats herself, steady now, whispering, even though there’s not a soul to hear them except the horses. And maybe that wily cat, who is now curled up and napping in a wheelbarrow across the floor, furry tail covering her pink nose. Daenerys says her next words plainly, “Between _us_.”

The emphasis that she gives that final word makes her intentions clear enough that even Jorah Mormont can’t hide from the truth any longer. A beautiful, lovely, perfect woman stands before him and says she wants there to be more than just her and him.

She wants an _us_. 

Well, he can certainly accommodate _that_. 

His furrowed brow relaxes. He feels light and warm, despite the fact that the barn is nearly as cold as the subzero temperatures in the fields. All those miles on the road, brooding and wondering—his doubts start to fall off like great clumps of snow, melting off a tin roof in full sunshine. 

Even if it’s still midnight. Midnight, exactly. 

Distant bells from the church down in West Creek start tolling the hour, declaring it so. 

Twelve chimes to mark the New Year. The sound works as a reminder to Jorah that time is passing, although he wouldn’t have been surprised if someone told him it stopped there for a minute, as he found himself lost in Daenerys’s sparkling eyes and soft grin.

She cocks that same eyebrow as before, not-so-patiently waiting for him to give his answer. He takes his sweet time, an infuriatingly patient man by birth. He only rouses by the fourth toll of bells.

“I suppose it is New Year’s…,” Jorah swallows as he dares to say those words. He moistens his bottom lip with his tongue, as he’s on the precipice of daring just a little more. 

“You don’t need an excuse to kiss me, Jorah,” Daenerys replies, shaking her head while that grin dimples one of her cheeks, widening in expectation.

As the church bells continue to toll, Jorah slowly bends down to press a gentle, winter-chilled but love-warmed, kiss to Daenerys’s lips. She’s still grinning as she rises up on the toes of her boots to meet him, having been waiting some time for this kiss and unwilling to give him the chance to pull away too quickly. 

That kiss sparks like fireworks and flames like kindling in a campfire. It shines like a shooting star whirring across the Montana night sky. There’s heat and magic in that kiss, wonder, knowledge, and a promise of much _more_. They linger together in the middle of the barn floor, stealing kisses from each other, until long after the bells have faded away. 

“Happy New Year, Daenerys,” he breathes against her hair, pulling her into a hug afterwards. Her blanketed arms are thrown around his neck, as she seeks his embrace without a second thought.

“Happy New Year, Jorah,” she murmurs back with contentment and joy, as she sinks against the corduroy and wool of his jacket, finding the perfect antidote to winter’s chill in the arms of her favorite cowboy.

* * *

Jorah doesn’t sleep in the bunkhouse that night. 

When Jaime wakes up the next morning, he sees the other man’s bunk is cold and deserted, bedsheets unrumpled, pillow forsaken and boots nowhere to be found…

 _Thatta boy, Mormont_ , he thinks, smirking into his pillow, before closing his eyes and dozing off for a few hours more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. Yes, I made Cersei into a barn cat. No, I'm not sorry about it. I just don't want any twincesty drama in my Braime party 😘
> 
> Annnnnd I've been tricked into continuing this fic for at least two more chapters by both the lovely comments sitting in my inbox (you're all wonderful and I'll be getting to replies shortly, promise <3) and the divine inspiration that comes from staring at the _gorgeous_ salzrand pic for about a week now (and gurl, I can't overstate how gorgeous this one is. Impossible. Like still unable to form coherent sentences impossible #ajskadlfkakehadjalk *screams in cowboy!Jorah/ranchgirl!Dany feels*) 😍😍😍
> 
> So yeah, expect a couple more chapters in the new year, with some major Jaime/Brienne content in Ch 3 *salutes* and more pretty Jorleesi too just because <3


	3. A Prairie Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Braime <3 With salzrand bringing the extra swoon, as always 😍

Spring comes to the territory slowly. After months of bone-chilling gales and green-killing frost, all those prairie flowers are timid, gun-shy little things. They wait until the snows clear out for good to show their pretty, painted faces to the sun. 

Jaime reaches down to pluck blooms of yellow bells, pink shooting stars and blue larkspur, to add to a growing bouquet held loosely in one of his calloused hands. He’s been adding to the spray of color since he left the ranch, taking his time along the roadside, meandering a bit on his way to Selwyn Tarth’s plot of land. 

Tarth’s homestead is located a few miles outside of town, closer to the Targaryen ranch than West Creek proper, heavy on blue spruce and surrounded by a few shallow creek beds where Old Man Tarth has convinced himself he’s seen specks of silver and even a few blue sapphires peeking out from the mud.

Brienne’s admitted to Jaime that this is pure nonsense. She’s waded in those waters since she was a little girl and she’s never found anything shinier than quartz, and even that’s in short supply. It’s all pebbles and stones. She wishes her father would stop pretending, as she thinks no good will ever come of trying to force ugly, plain pebbles to be sparkling gemstones.

Jaime’s begun to suspect that Brienne feels the same way about herself. And he can’t pretend to not know why.

He met Brienne at a harvest party a few years ago. He was drunk and said a couple foolish things off-the-cuff. Cat Stark had caged him by the buffet table for almost half an hour and riled him up about some bad blood between his family and the one she’d married into. He let it get under his skin in a way that usually didn’t happen. And since he didn’t want Cat to know that she’d needled him, he took it out on the next person who crossed his path, instead.

Brienne. Tall and awkward and _terribly_ self-conscious Brienne Tarth. 

When he turned from Cat’s presence, fuming dangerously, he ran headlong into a woman—tall and broad and big enough to be a man. It didn’t help that she always cut her hair a little shorter than most women. Not that there was _any_ excuse for his behavior. But his senses were impaired and he thought she _was_ a man, until he looked up into blue eyes with long lashes. 

“Ow,” he said, rubbing an elbow that had struck bone. 

He looked up, as she was taller than him. Not by much. But enough that he found himself smirking in a humor caught right between annoyed astonishment and just plain cruelty for cruelty’s sake.

“God, you’re a beast of a woman, aren’t you?” he said as he stared up at her, muttering the words as a sort of joke, vaguely wondering where she’d come from. Minnesota? They grew giants up in their pine forests, didn’t they?

His “joke” fell flat. So very flat.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. For he saw how they fell on the woman’s ears with immediate effect. Those blue eyes were crestfallen, cutting through his drunken haze and chasing away the mirth that lingered in his features. She looked like a strong, sturdy girl. He wouldn’t be able to take her down easily, that’s for sure. 

But in less than ten words, he’d cut her to the quick. Those words wounded her. Deeply. And because the attack wasn’t expected, she had no way to hide how it wounded her, which somehow made it that much worse. Her eyes pulled away from his in embarrassment, knowing that he read her expression too easily, and played witness to the pain that washed her features in red.

He wanted to snatch those words back but it was too late. The damage was done.

She recovered, her expression hardening to stone and she didn’t answer him, likely used to that sort of thing. She was the tallest woman in West Creek, and wasn’t one for wearing silks and satins like the more delicate roses that had been plucked from their East Coast gardens to come out here and try to civilize the place. 

“Pardon me, Mr. Lannister,” she muttered in a voice that wavered, increasing her humiliation twofold. She pushed past him, hurrying off to find the nearest exit.

If he could go back in time and knock his unfeeling self to the floor, he would do it in a minute. Doesn’t she understand that?

He didn’t mean it. She’s beautiful. She’s wonderful. And the fact that she still doesn’t understand that breaks his heart. But he’ll continue to drill that fact into her beautiful, if stubbornly bullheaded skull, if it’s the last thing he does.

He might have saddled a horse but he doesn’t want Brienne to hear him coming. If he’s lucky, he hopes to surprise her out in the yard, hanging laundry or making soap or raking the muck of last autumn’s leaves, before she has a chance to slip back into Selwyn Tarth’s little shack and fake a cough. 

_Go away, I have a cold…_

That was her excuse last week but he’s not buying it for a minute. She’s so strong. She could bat away a little thing like a cold without breaking a sweat.

If Brienne knew his thoughts, she would shake her head at his damn foolishness. Everyone gets sick. Everyone gets hurt. Everyone’s sad sometimes, she’d tell him.

That’s okay. He wants her to tell him things like this. He wants her to talk to him and scold him and tell him he’s being an idiot.

He just wants her to talk to him. And _be_ with him. 

Because when he’s around her, Jaime feels like a better person. And, for the first time in his life, he wants to be a better person. 

For her.

* * *

Luck is with him, as always. 

Brienne is out by the stock fences. Her horses are grazing on the fresh shoots of ryegrass and foxtail popping up all over the pasture, staying well within their bounds. But the weather’s done a number on the gate and she’s got a hammer in one hand and a few nails in the other as she pulls the misbehaving board tight once more. 

Her loyal mutt, Pod, a mix of a retriever and good old hound dog, is running around at her feet, attempting to be helpful. She gives a long-suffering sigh at the dog’s antics, as he puts his forepaws up against the gate and nearly pulls it loose again while she’s in the middle of tightening it up. 

“Pod, for God’s sake,” she says, with a groan. “You’re about as much help as a hole in the head!”

“Don’t blame him…,” a sly voice drifts in from across the yard. Brienne resists the urge to groan again, giving a look towards the heavens, expecting that a few more rainclouds have gathered above her. That’s the only way this day could get any worse.

She doesn’t have time to deal with Jaime today. Her fool of a father’s been out panning for god-knows-what since before dawn, but the place is a wreck and dreams of gold and silver don’t get the chores done. She has too much work to do, can’t he see…?

Before she can protest, Jaime hops forward in a quick two-step to give her a hand with the gate. He holds the board straight for her, while reaching down to give Pod’s head a good scratch behind the ears. He reminds her, “The poor mutt wasn’t born with hands.”

He winks at her, even as her expression darkens as soon as she knows who comes to her aid. But she can’t refuse the help. Not so freely given. She doesn’t say anything as she finishes up with the gate, pulling on the cross brace when she’s done to see if it holds again. Nor when they’re finished, and Jaime’s smiling her way, with that Cheshire grin that melts the swooning hearts of nearly every girl in West Creek. 

But Brienne’s not a swooner. She flat out _refuses_ to swoon.

Not even when Jaime hands her over that bouquet of wildflowers—a regular spray of color, with buttercups and harebells and lupine added to the others, pleasing as a sonnet, pretty as a prairie sunset.

“Thank you,” she mutters, a bit under her breath, refusing to meet his gaze directly. 

She’s looking down at the flowers and the dog, who is now sitting on his haunches beside Jaime, reveling in the cowboy’s continued attentions, as he leans up against the man’s pant leg, rewarded with a few more scratches around the scruff of his furry neck. 

Pod’s tongue is out. He’s nearly smiling.

 _Traitor_ , Brienne thinks with an inward huff.

Jaime just waits on her. He doesn’t say anything more, having pushed enough just by showing up here unannounced. His eyes are dancing with hope already, as it’s been all of five minutes and she has yet to order him off her property.

The pretty flowers in her hands soften her heart too much. The unabashedly fond look in that cowboy’s eyes soften it a little more. 

_Traitor_ , she thinks again. But, this time, she’s scolding her own heart. 

“I should put these in water,” she tells him. A breeze comes up and one strand of her shoulder-length hair comes loose, falling into her eyes. Her hands are full with that bouquet of wildflowers, so she’s unable reach up and brush it away.

Jaime does it for her. 

Slowly, carefully, without his usual flair for grand gestures. It’s a subtle move, just a lift of his hand. His thumb skims her freckled forehead as he brushes the flaxen strand away, letting his fingers fall with her hair, following it back to tuck the strand behind her ear.

Her skin tingles on his touch, as always. She hates that she feels this way. She hates that for all her fierce words and shows of strength, she’s nothing but mush inside when he’s around.

She wants to cry at the look he gives her. Because for all the love brimming in his handsome eyes, she’s fairly certain he’ll break her heart eventually and she’d rather not go through the pleasure if there’s only pain waiting for her at the end. In her experience, men like Jaime Lannister always come with pain.

Heaps and heaps of pain. She swallows hard, tempted to risk it…

“The beauty of those flowers pale in comparison to you, Brienne,” he’s oh-so-smooth with his silver tongue. He’s been charming women with that accented drawl since he was fifteen, at least. 

But his words are such _nonsense_. And that brings her back to her senses. So, so quickly. 

With something between a groan and a growl of frustration, she slams the bouquet of flowers back against his chest, scattering blooms on the ground, bending stems and tearing petals, and breaking their shared gaze in the process. She clenches her fist as she strides away from him, too angry to even form a coherent reply. 

He catches her arm, caught off-guard by her sudden anger. His expression falls and his voice holds no silver in it now. He asks plainly, “Hey, what did I say?”

“If you truly like me, Jaime—” she begins.

“I do—,” he tries to interject but she stops him.

“No, let me finish,” she says, firmly. 

His eyes hold pain, and it doesn’t give her any joy to see it. She knows he probably meant the compliment sincerely enough. Or, at least, thought that’s what she wanted to hear. He can’t understand why she’s being this way. And how could he? He’s one of the most handsome men in the county. Perhaps in the whole state. He never had awkward years. He’s never not been the belle of the ball. 

He has his pick of women, whether that pick is made on impulse or just a stupid lark.

_Am I a lark for you, Jaime? Is that what this is?_

She takes a deep breath, cursing herself for even saying one more word to him. But she can’t help herself. She likes Jaime. She likes him more than she can say. 

That will only make the end of this worse. Which is why she hesitates, endlessly, for it to begin. 

She closes her eyes for a minute, letting her racing heartbeat slow down, steadying herself so she can say what she wants to say in a tone that won’t let her down. 

“If you truly feel the way you say, then don’t tell me lies,” she opens her eyes again, the irises snapping with a confidence that is rare for her. 

They’ve switched their usual roles, with Jaime wearing a hangdog expression that he can’t shake. His crooked grins are all gone, banished away, and his eyes betray his feelings so openly. She’s never seen him so unsure of himself. And she hates that she’s causing his eyes to shade with such raw sorrow. She doesn’t mean to make him sad.

Yet, somehow, that makes her brave enough to continue.

She tells him straight, “Don’t say I’m the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. And don’t tell me that I have the voice of angels or the grace of flowers or whatever other balderdash you have planned. I’m not beautiful, Jaime. I know that. I’m not graceful or accomplished or anything like that. I’m awkward and homely and—”

“But you’re not,” Jaime insists, his grip around her wrist tightening just slightly, willing her to understand.

“‘A beast of a woman’,” she quotes his own words back to him, flatly. She’s glad to see his eyes spark on that, and his cheeks bloom with shame, remembering the moment well enough. 

It wasn’t even the worst she’d heard. Not by a long shot. It’s just stuck with her the longest.

Because _he_ said it. Handsome, clever, charming Jaime Lannister—who apparently felt like she was so hideous, she didn’t even need a “hello, pleased to meet you” before telling her what he really thought. 

And now he wants them to be…something? How can she trust anything else that comes out of his mouth when the first words she ever heard from him are the ones that hurt her most of all.

In her entire life.

“I didn’t mean it,” Jaime replies, shaking his head, imploring her to believe him. But then he remembers her request that he be honest. He amends, lamely, but with a voice that stretches thin with regret, “I didn’t know you.”

“So you’re the type of man who just randomly insults a woman he just met?” she answers, unimpressed. “How is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, I…,” Jaime’s getting tongue-tied. He mines deep, for the bedrock of truth. Something that he’s learned from her. “Brienne, you know who I am. God, woman, you…you see right through me. No one calls me out like you do. And I’m sorry. I don’t wanna lie to you. But you _are_ beautiful. So beautiful. And the fact that you can’t see that for yourself is why they call this a cruel, cruel world.”

Brienne keeps her lips pressed together tightly, as she doesn’t want her mouth to quiver under his words. Her voice might break if she speaks, so she just says nothing at all.

And for the first time, perhaps ever, Jaime doesn’t say any more either. He doesn’t have to. He’s said all that matters. And there’s more truth in his eyes than he’d ever be able to speak with his smooth-talking tongue.

Truth that says he thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. That he loves her as deep as those canyons carved out by the Colorado River. And that he doesn’t plan to give up. Not even if she tells him to get on down the road again.

His thumb is back on her face, wiping away a stupid tear that somehow escaped from under her dark lashes as she stands there, tired of fighting these feelings, ready to make a mistake that she hopes she won’t regret for the rest of her life.

“Please don’t hurt me, Jaime,” she begs him, with a quiet voice.

“I don’t plan to, darlin’,” he promises, letting out his breath in sweet relief. He uses the hand that still holds her wrist to pull her close. She comes, all her last defenses crumbling under the soft attentions of a man who has had her heart for much longer than she’d care to admit to anyone.

Especially him.

But he probably knows it already. His lips break into that familiar grin when they brush over hers, as if he knows it. As if he knows all her secrets. But she finds that she’s grinning too, and…goddamnit, she’s swooning, isn’t she? 

_Oh, to hell with it_ …Brienne thinks, her hands twisting in the front of his calico shirt, her body melting against his with all the resistance of brook water.

When they split apart, she sees the scattered flowers at their feet. She crouches down to pick them back up, carefully, preserving the blooms that had survived her best efforts to destroy them. Jaime kneels down beside her and passes pink and blue blossoms back into her hand, while keeping Pod back from trampling them in his eager desire to help. 

“Well, come in,” Brienne tells him, as they straighten up. The once over she gives him matches the one he gives her, and their grins remain undiminished, blue eyes flickering over green with mischief of an amorous sort. 

Her father won’t be back until dusk and they both know it. 

She says, “We’ll put these in water, at least.”

 _At least._

Jaime doesn’t leave the Tarth homestead until much later that evening.


End file.
